


Eucharist

by historymiss



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Gen, spoilers kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: ‘God is the only adult who has ever apologised to you, and he keeps doing it, and each time it’s like a punch to your gut. You wish he’d stop.’Written for the lovely necromanticatheart, who requested ‘john laying on the performative kindness for harrow, bc he is so *nice* and so *awful* and it’s juicy‘
Comments: 3
Kudos: 69





	Eucharist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [necromanticatheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/necromanticatheart/gifts).



God finds you in the kitchen, in the wee small hours of the simulated morning. You’re experimenting with venturing beyond your rooms at night, finding odd places to hunker down and take your rest. Places that the Saint of Duty won’t think to look, at least for a few hours. 

To that end, you have crammed yourself in one of the kitchen cabinets. It’s not difficult, aside from wedging the two hander in first. Once inside, it’s dark and private and smells of expired spices. You are just beginning to drift into a fitful sleep when God’s face appears, upside down, framed in the little sliver of light around the edge of the cabinet door.

“Harrowhark?” Your stomach curdles with mortification. “What’re you doing down there?”

You wet dry lips and try not to resent the feeling of sleep slipping from your grasp yet again.

“Lord,” You croak, crowishly, “I am pursued.”

“Oh yes.” He frowns slightly, as if being reminded of something inconvenient. “That.” The frown remains for a moment, then is smoothed into something worse. Pity.

“Well, he won’t do anything while I’m making a cuppa, so can you pass up the bikkies?”

You dig something square and crinkly out of the small of your back and pass it up. His fingers brush yours as you hand it over: warm and gentle. It’s been an age since someone touched you like that. You are reminded of your father, because of course you are, except that you always think of Priamhark’s touch as cold.

God takes the biscuits and sets the kettle going, filling the kitchen with a rattling, steaming hiss. 

“I wish I could stop him.” He says, apparently to the air. “I truly do. And yet he’s just doing his job- as you have to do yours. Harrow, I’m so sorry.”

God is the only adult who has ever apologised to you, and he keeps doing it, and each time it’s like a punch to your gut. You wish he’d stop.

“Lord.” It’s the only word that you can manage, in your sleep deprived state. It isn’t what you want to say, but when have you ever said what you truly mean?

To anyone?

“It can’t be helped.” God sounds as weary as you, and infinitely sad. There’s the clink and clatter of tea being made, then he hands down something to you. 

It is a mug of chamomile tea, and a biscuit. The biscuit has a picture of a cow on it.

“Might help you sleep.” God’s eyes are like headlights in the dark, or the promise of daylight in a deep, deep tunnel. 

You take the sacrament from his hand, and your body trembles with thanks.


End file.
